My grandfather dies slowly,

his fingers too arthritic

to play his guitar, while

less than a mile from the hospital

I drink wine straight from the bottle,

and do not think of him.

Some nights,

sins leap at me

like snakes or bobcats, and

I am mauled with wrongdoing,

fearing that

I will never make it to any holy land,

but, with morning, comfort comes slowly:

I will grow my beard long,

tie birds to it,

and be lifted to heaven.

I hide my lust

like a dildo buried

under closet cardigans.

Tonight I bathe in silence,

my bulges rising

from bathwater as

pale, rounded beaches,

toes popping in and out of waves

like sea turtles.

My pubic hair drifts

too much like seaweed,

and I decide to trim it.